<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Communion by charmtion</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24864934">Communion</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/charmtion'>charmtion</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Priest Jon, Priest Kink</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:00:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,925</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24864934</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/charmtion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>‘There he stood in the dappled sunlight eking through the little cross-patterned ruin of the confessional screen, shadows splashed across his shoulders, his face — the bloodied hand he lowered toward the hem of her lemon-coloured dress.’</p>
</blockquote><br/>What priest and penitent do together in the cool, quiet space of the church makes the angels weep. Or: Jon breaks his vow of celibacy with Sansa — again and again.
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jon Snow/Sansa Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>102</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>JonsaKinks</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Communion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Sansa is not so stupid to think that this is love.</p><p>It is not love: this arrangement, this communion she has found with another troubled soul. The heat of it is not in her heart. It is in the scrape of teeth on the soft underside of her breast, the little ink-print bruises left on her hips. It is in the shape of his hands, the hardness of his palms — weathered, worn. Make no mistake, this man of god knew a different life once, and lived it to the full.</p><p>He tells her this not so much with words, but in the way he moves. The slope of his shoulders, the purpose to his footsteps, the quick-furling fist at his side. This is a man who has done violence; no wonder his soul is troubled as her own. That white square at his throat may keep it collared now, but rage remains in him, and this arrangement, this communion — it provides a slim avenue through which to unleash it.</p><p>There are times — pitstops along that avenue — she thinks him more pagan than priest. Little rituals he has: the cloth smoothed beneath her body — bare, brushed by candlelight — the crucifix dripping its gilded chain over her chin. His hand around her throat; the way his eyes roll back with a groan when he squeezes his palm against her flesh very, very lightly. Father Jon does not cry out to one god then — he cries out to several. Old names, weathered as the stone they were carved upon centuries past.</p><p>Robb suspects nothing, her mother even less. Troubled: it is a label both have gently placed onto Sansa’s brow, smoothed the fiery hair to hang artlessly either side of it. They think she spends so much time in the church to feel closer to her father. If only they knew that it is not epitaphs her fingertips trace, lay flowers to — it is flesh, blood, the hardened heat of sin. Grasping hands, open mouth; please God, let her drown in it.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>She opened her mouth to him the first time they met. The first words he spoke to her were accompanied by the lightest brush of his thumb to her lower lip as she parted her teeth, extended her tongue. He placed the wafer very lightly on it; she wanted him to slide inside her mouth till the heel of his hand lodged against her jaw.</p><p>His words became a blur. Blood, body — her own was a tempest rising fast against her. It thundered in her ears, warmed the insides of her wrists, her thighs. His eyes lingered on her: dark as night, expectant. She swallowed, wanted to stick out her tongue to show him it was clean — she would come to know he liked that — but she blinked prettily instead, let a slow smile trip her lips, shape them into a sound:</p><p>“Amen.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The choir are singing as the church-doors creak open, a soothing wash of sound — even Sansa can appreciate its purity. She walks between the pews, flanked either side by Robb and Mother, the thin cotton of her lemon-coloured dress rustling over her hips. Bare beneath, just how he likes her to be.</p><p>“Mrs Stark,” intones it in his soft priestly voice, soothing as the choir’s hymn. “Robb.” A handshake; eyes dark as night turned to her own politely. “Miss Stark.”</p><p>For now, that is who she is to him. <em>Miss Stark</em>. Later, her name in his mouth will sound a little different—</p><p><em>oh</em>,<em> meus columba, dulciter canant</em>…</p><p>—a little softer: a tongue-stroke against his teeth as he bends his head toward the stretch of her body upon the altar.</p><p>But that is later.</p><p>For now, she smiles, extends her hand toward him. His thumb slides into the cradle of her own; his palm flexes. She feels the strength in him, tries to hide the shiver scurrying beneath the sweat-damp cotton clinging to the small of her back. Her lips part; she wants to be on her knees, repentant.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>It was how this arrangement, this communion between them began. A clichéd beginning, really — a penitent, a priest, a polished wooden booth. It was a space of shadows; the darkness in her soul became just another part of it.</p><p>“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”</p><p>He shifted in those dark, dark shadows. “What do you come to confess?”</p><p>“I am corrupted.”</p><p>“Who has corrupted you?”</p><p>“You, Father — you.”</p><p>He shifted again. “How have I corrupted you?”</p><p>“I think about you at night,” she said softly. “Alone in my bed — I put my fingers inside my cunt, pretend they belong to you.”</p><p>“Do you move them?”</p><p>Her breath caught in her throat. “My fingers?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“<em>Yes</em>.”</p><p>A lightning-stroke, his voice crackled on the air. “Tell me how.”</p><p>“One at first, then another.” Her fingers fluttered on the smooth, aged wood of the confessional seat. “I slide them in — then out. Over and over.”</p><p>“What does it sound like?”</p><p>“Wet, Father.” Breathy, her throat felt hot, bursting. “It echoes in my room. Sometimes I’m afraid my family might hear me.”</p><p>Garbled grumble; she would come to know it for a groan. “You taste them after… don’t you?”</p><p>“My fingers?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Her head thumped softly back against the polished wood. “<em>Yes</em>.”</p><p>“Tell me what you taste like.”</p><p>“Like — <em>oh</em> — like lemons.”</p><p>She heard the distinct sound of his tongue dropping from the roof of his mouth. “Are you wet now, my child?”</p><p>“I am.”</p><p>“Where are your fingers?”</p><p>Her hand stilled beneath her dress. “They are — <em>Father</em>.”</p><p>“You will tell me,” he said lowly. “You will tell me in all honesty and truth.”</p><p>“Between my legs,” she breathed. “Inside my — ”</p><p>The partition between them shook, then was shattered down to splinters by the fist that broke fury through it.</p><p>There he stood in the dappled sunlight eking through the little cross-patterned ruin of the confessional screen, shadows splashed across his shoulders, his face — the bloodied hand he lowered toward the hem of her lemon-coloured dress.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Before the final hymn has even begun, her legs are parting beneath the thin cotton lapping just above her knee. Reflexive — her body knows that it will soon receive what it has been praying for. Her hips roll back a bit as she straightens her spine, rocks to seek a little pressure against the smooth seat.</p><p>Sansa is glad that she wore her hair down. It shimmers like copper in the sunlight, cascades over her chest, hides her breasts, her nipples denting through the fabric of her dress — hard, hurting — aching for his fingers, his mouth. Her eyes slip closed for half a heartbeat, imagining the soft, wet warmth of his lips and tongue gliding—</p><p>“<em>Ite, missa est</em>.”</p><p>—down between her breasts, the taut plain of her belly, the dip between her hipbones. Lower — <em>lower</em>. Her cunt catching kisses from those lips shaping holy words, smiling at the bowed heads of the congregation as they chant their reply.</p><p>“<em>Deo gratias</em>.”</p><p>She blinks at him now: blue-wide, biting at her cheeks to stop the low, little whimper treading careless feet on her tongue. His nostrils flare, his brow twitches — as if he can hear it even though she has swallowed it back.</p><p>Fleetingly, his eyes find her own amongst the rising flood of worshippers; she reads the command — wordless, plain — etched in those weathered grey depths.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“Come.”</p><p>Her hair was a rope around his wrist, her head jagged back till his mouth brushed her ear. That word tripped inside it, rattled down every bit of her being — but she was tired, and her body bowed away from him, spent and used, every little ribbon of euphoria run from her veins, bled through her palms pressed into the cool flagstones of the church floor.</p><p>“Father,” she panted. “I can’t — Father Jon, <em>please</em>.”</p><p>But he was relentless: this man of violence dressed in the gown of godliness. A wolf, not a shepherd — and just then at the beginning of it all, she was a lamb: helpless, bleating. Her thighs trembled, her knees were brushed to bloodstain on the hard stone floor. His grip tightened in her hair.</p><p>“You will come for me,” he said lowly. “You will come for me again, little lamb.”</p><p>The heat beneath her skin was untenable; her heart felt like it was about to burst, make tatters of the skin stretched across her ribs. He pulled on her hair — up, <em>up</em> — till her back was flush to his chest, her knees parted wide, her eyes tipped up toward the vaulted ceiling of the church.</p><p>Stained glass shimmered, and her world was a burst of blues and greens and rubies turning torture to tender treasure in her mind and his fingers were working tight, busy circles and his cock was wrecking, ruining her even as she begged for more of it—</p><p>“Come, little lamb.”</p><p>—and she <em>did</em>. She came and she cried out his name till it echoed like a curse against the cold, stone walls of the church in which they sinned.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Still, it is not love: this arrangement, this communion that exists between them.</p><p>The heat of it is not in her heart. It is in the scrape of teeth on the soft skin of her inner thigh, the little wine-drops dotting her collarbone as the chalice topples from the altar. It is in the shape of his hands, the hardness of his palms — weathered, worn — as he spreads her like a sacrifice, dips his lips to drink.</p><p>Saints stare down at her, angels hide behind their gilded hands as she rises toward the vaulted ceiling and she laughs at them, thinks that what is godliness if it is not flying without wings?</p><p>Airless, she rises — higher, <em>higher</em> — and the sounds of his feasting blanket her like heavy water, holy wine till she luxuriates within the thickness of it, spreads her fingers into the sky, dips to touch the stars.</p><p>“Come,” he murmurs against her cunt. “Come for me, <em>meum cor</em>.”</p><p>Beneath her body — bare, brushed by candlelight — the cloth pulls taut as her back arches away from the altar. The crucifix drips its gilded chain over her chin; she bites at the limbs of the cross with her teeth. He pulls it free as he glides his mouth from her cunt, up her belly, between her breasts, nuzzles at her throat.</p><p>Father Jon meets her eyes, then, and she sees in the shadows of them a reflection of her own soul: its troubles, its wants, its fragile desires — flesh, blood, the hardened heat of sin. Grasping hands, open mouth; please God, let her drown in it.</p><p>He smiles slowly as his fingers leave the warmth they have found, their cradle between her thighs. Sansa whimpers at the loss — a high, pure sound echoing like a hymn — even as his damp thumb finds her chin, strokes it softly. She feels the print of it stick to her skin. He licks his lips, looks down at her: dark as night, expectant.</p><p>“Like lemons,” he says softly. “Do you want a taste?”</p><p>She opens her mouth to him, extends her tongue. He places his thumb very lightly on it; her eyes roll to the back of her head as he slides inside her mouth till the heel of his hand is lodged against her jaw.</p><p>Lingers there as their gazes lock and the heat between them flushes the chill of the church from the air, makes it shimmer as a shadow to the sound rolling with his thumb atop her tongue:</p><p>“Amen.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p></p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <br/></p>
</div><br/>Yo, that was the purest (un)holiest filth and I love it. I am enjoying letting my writing style flow a bit more than usual of late, as well as (re)discovering the beauty of the humble comma. I’ve also been listening to a lot of the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VUx2S3vwVus">Angels &amp; Demons</a> soundtrack and this verse crept up on me like a thief in the night, held me hostage till I wrote it down. I really enjoyed writing it; I can only hope all ye saints and sinners enjoyed reading it, too! Oh and — Happy Kink Week, woo! ❤️<p><b>Latin translations</b>: <i>oh meus columba, dulciter canant</i> [oh my dove, sing sweetly] <i>ite, missa est</i> [go, you have been dismissed] <i>deo gratias</i> [thanks be to God] <i>meum cor</i> [my heart… WHAT it’s me OBVIOUSLY he loves her ffs get off my back x]</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>